The Biz
by Roland 'Jim' Lowery
Summary: Corporations and Nack T. Weasel have generally never mixed very well, but master salesman Jeremy Doggart has a plan, a proposal, and the guts to use them to entice the recalcitrant bounty hunter into the corporate fold.


The following short story is based on characters created and/or copyrighted by SEGA! Enterprises, DiC Productions, Archie Comic Publishers, Fleetway Comic Publishers, and the Taki Corporation. All other characters were created and copyrighted by Roland Lowery.

The author gives full permission to distribute this work freely, as long as no alterations are made and the exchange of monetary units is not involved. Any questions, comments, suggestions, or complaints should be sent to **esn1g(at)yahoo(dot)com**. Thank you.

* * *

"In business everyone is out to grab, to fight, to win."  
-Alice Foote MacDougall

* * *

**The Biz**  
by Roland Lowery 

**Thursday, October 12  
3223 AD**

_The room was white._

Not just any white, but _stark_ white. The sort of white that painters would see in their worst nightmares, reflecting an unholy amount of light around corners, under doors, and even through eyelids hopelessly shut against it. The only counterpoint to the maddening lack of color was a irregularly set grid of black lines on the ceiling, floor, and walls. The lines served no real purpose except to break the monotony of the pure white as well as throw it into even starker relief through the contrast.

The room was precisely calculated to drive its inhabitants mad, and this was just the way Jeremy Doggart liked it.

According to the vast majority of those immersed in the Mobian corporate culture, the best way to gain a customer's heart, trust, and credit balance was to relax them; to lull them into a sense of false security just before slipping a hand in for their wallet. This type of mentality breeded rooms filled with browns and greys and potted plants and abstract paintings that were supposed to represent beaches.

Jeremy did not hold with such wash. He hadn't made it ten highly successful years in the marketing business by kicking back with a martini or - Ancient Walkers forbid - a brew, regaling his clients and the consuming public with laconic anecdotes. His method was fueled by methamphetamines and techno music . . . a bold, hit 'em high hit 'em low brand of selling himself and his customers' products.

The manic room was a favorite of his for this reason, though he only used it on very rare, very special occasions. It drove potential customers to distraction, allowing his fast-paced words to slide past their defenses and making them much more likely to agree to anything just so they could get back out to a saner, more familiar world.

And, though potent, the room was not the only tool in Jeremy's arsenal. Another area were he stepped out of time with the standard corporate lockstep was clothing. Many corporate professionals had taken to a very casual style of dress over the past . . . well, several thousand years, really. Mobians, being mostly covered with fur, tended to wear clothing only when it was comfortable or necessary. Jeremy, however, viewed his clothing as an ultimate statement of his purpose, a symbol of his success, and - most importantly - a tool to use against the opposition.

Every piece of his full body three-piece suit was tailor-made for him specifically. Every stitch was of the highest caliber and guaranteed to last for at least another century. The shoes were shined so thoroughly that the depth of their black seemed to absorb the white of the room around them like a black hole tearing away at the sun. The shade of navy blue was scientifically calculated to offset the chestnut brown of his fur just the right amount. The pearl and gold brooch pinned to the red striped tie was positioned for maximum aesthetic effect. Every square inch of the suit was completely immaculate.

In boardroom meetings, during presentations, and even during the occasional (read "frequent") power lunch, Jeremy's suit was his armor. Inside of it, he was invincible. He could not be rattled, he could not be sold out, he could not be denied. He was the _best_.

This was why even though he had been passed over for several promotions, he continued to receive at least two substantial pay raises every year and had company perks hanging out of his ears. Not that he would have accepted a promotion anyway. He was needed right where he was, in the trenches, fighting the good fight. He had signed on more accounts for his employers in a single year than many of their other acquisitions executives had managed in their entire career.

He was on top of the game. And if he managed to settle a contract with the potential client he would be meeting within the next few moments, he would be _over_ the top. A perfect grin, brimming with self-confidence, spread across his face as he imagined shaking hands over the table. He would make that dream a reality. He knew he would. Because he was Jeremy motherfucking Doggart, and nothing was going to stand in his way.

This extra-special client was why he was bringing in all of the big guns today. The room, the suit, and even his erstwhile lackey ("partner" to his face) Been Wool had all been carefully assembled by Jeremy on this day just to make sure that absolutely nothing could go wrong.

Jeremy's grin was softly subsumed by a more business-like demeanor as the elevator display across the room from him lit up and started counting floors. One of the perks of having designed the room himself was the ability to place it right at a lift opening. Part of the disorienting effect was stepping out from dark, womb-like space into a insanely bright wide open space. The slightly more sadistic side of the dog's personality frittered about playfully for a moment, remembering the startled looks so many other clients had sported as they stepped from the world they knew into a world they didn't.

Been shifted slightly in his chair, but Jeremy barely noticed. He was already in the zone, a predator waiting for the moment of the kill.

A soft hum filled the room, followed swiftly by an only slightly harder ding. The doors slid open, and out stepped Nack The Weasel.

* * *

Many of Jeremy's peers called him insanely brilliant. A good portion of them sometimes left the "brilliant" part off, which merely caused the dog to smile devilishly and tap the side of his head. Insane or not, the strategies and ad campaigns that he devised were far more often wildly successful than otherwise. Many of his complimentary peers had also said of him the old cliché about selling refrigerators to polar Mobians . . . right up until he actually began investing in and then marketing a storage unit that could slowly cook food by using the absence of heat at the polar extremes. Afterwards, the kneeslapping humor was quickly replaced by quiet astonishment. 

His latest idea involving Nack - bounty hunter extraordinaire and famous for being temperamental regarding corporate Mobius' concerns - turned the quiet astonishment into uneasy stares.

Over the course of the purple weasel's career, stories had popped up all over the place about companies trying to lure him into exclusive contracts for corporate espionage, product testing, and resource gathering. Though Nack was perfectly willing to do one-shot deals in his capacity as a hunter, just as he was with any private individual, he was completely resistant to the idea of being even semi-permanently tied down to any corporation. Many of the stories tended to end in anything from overturned desks to laser blasted coffee mugs to imploding office buildings. Eventually, broaching the subject with the famed hunter became something of a rarely-mentioned taboo.

Jeremy - as evidenced by his disdain for corporate culture - preferred working outside the rules when it suited him, whether those rules were actually written or not. This was why he, in a fit of creative madness nearly a week prior to the meeting, procured Nack's commlink frequency and left a message concerning a long-term, mutually beneficial proposal that the weasel simply couldn't _afford_ to miss out on.

At first it seemed as if Nack was going to pass without considering or even bothering to call back. But call back he did, and now he was stepping from the dark womb into the clinical white as Jeremy mentally steeled himself to surgically work his way into deepest, greediest recesses of the weasel's very soul.

* * *

The first thing that Jeremy noticed as Nack stepped from the elevator was the smell. He couldn't quite place it, but it reminded him somewhat of a hard day's workout at the gym. This smell, however, was . . . earthier, somehow. It was almost as if it were entering the dog's nose through several layers of dirt and grime. 

The second thing that he noticed was that several layers of dirt and grime was, in fact, _exactly_ was the smell was moving through. Nack was covered almost head to foot with soot and grit, almost as if he had decided to take a mud dive into a rock quarry surrounded by a giant bonfire a few hours ago. Nack stopped for a moment to brush at the junk on his longcoat in a careless manner, then started walking forward again.

As Jeremy fought valiantly with the urge not to wrinkle his nose, he realized with a sinking feeling that Nack had not shrunk back at the sight of the glowing white room as so many before him had. Without waiting for an invitation, the weasel sauntered up to the table Jeremy and Been were sitting at, pulled out a chair, spun it lazily on one leg, and then sat down and propped his mud-caked boots firmly next to the small water pitcher sitting in front of Been. The sheep quickly shifted the pitcher a decimeter in his direction, as if afraid Nack's mere proximity might contaminate the water inside somehow.

Jeremy was not going to be off-put quite as easily as his companion. He turned his easy smile up a half-notch and said, "Ah, Mr. Weasel. We've been expecting you. My name is Jeremy Doggart, this is my associate Been Wool, and we want to welcome you to ThinkSmart Advertising."

Nack grunted noncommittally as he lifted his hat and haphazardly scratched his head through his unruly hair.

"We realize that you are a busy man," Jeremy continued briskly, "so I think I'll cut right to the chase here . . . we at ThinkSmart would very much like to procure your services as part of an endorsement campaign including a heavy variety of different products manufactured and services rendered by clientele already under our corporate umbrella. Your employment here would be of a low-intensity, high-yield type that would be tailor fit to your schedule at your request. While initial profferings would be under the direct control of our conglomerate - particularly at our shareholders' and clientele's discretion - you would retain the final say within certain limits in your participation, ensuring that your endorsement would only be received by those items with which you feel most comfortable.

"I must state at this juncture that, naturally, royalties would only be placed into your accounts payable branch should you choose to accept and perform the associated duties. Along with the royalty fees, however, you would also receive a flat balance annually to remain on retainer for that time period. Further, in parallel with the compensation package, we believe that the placement will advance your own placement within your chosen profession, enhancing your status and propelling your earning advantage severalfold.

"The contract that we have drafted for your approval and which Mr. Wool is now laying out has been carefully constructed so that all parties may gain the maximum benefit from our force combination. This includes the consumer, I might add, as they will be made aware of several fine product which they would have otherwise overlooked; quality products crafted by hardworking Mobians such as yourself. All you have to do is sign on the digital line or give a simple thumbprint scan and we can begin the process of making my company and - most importantly - _you_ a very healthy profit. What do you say, Mr. Weasel? Do we have a deal?"

After the last of Jeremy's words settled to the ground with the faintest ghost of an echo, a deep silence crept over the table. Nack had not moved a single muscle during the entire speech, his hand still poised mid-scratch above his pate, and it seemed that he had little interest in discontinuing his statue impersonation for the moment. There was the slight rustle of cloth as Been shifted uncomfortably once more, but Nack and Jeremy just kept staring at each other.

Finally, Nack budged, snugging his hat back into place over his head.

"Damn," he said slow and lazy, so that it came out as _dayumn_. "I don't think I've _ever_ heard so much _shit_ comin' outta the wrong end. Do they teach you boys how t'cough up your gutrot like that in school, or is it just one a'them 'learn as ya go' sorta things?"

Though he was sure that it was completely imperceptible to the rest of the room, Jeremy felt a little twitch start underneath his left eye. He brought his right hand - which had still been extended to show off the contract set out by Been - back to rest on his left as he tried to figure out how best to proceed.

"I understand your hesitancy, Mr. Weasel," he finally said, "but let me assure you that we intend to handle your account with the utmost care and delicacy. We are willing to negotiate any point you might wish to discuss and hopefully reach an equitable compromise."

"Yup, sounds pretty nice of ya," said Nack as he reached into one of his coat's inner pockets. "You mind if I smoke? 'Course you don't."

Before either of them could comment, Nack had pulled out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. A windproof lighter, igniting with a sound much like a miniature fusion booster, quickly followed. Smoke filled the air and the weasel's lungs in almost equal measure as Nack took a long, hard drag.

"Damn that's good," Nack sighed. With a quick flick of his hand, he sent a small wisp of ashes to settle amongst the muddy footprints he had tracked across the previously spotless white floor. "Problem is," he continued around another pull at the cigarette, "I don't really care to have any kinda relations with your little bunch. Bein' all high-falootin' actor-y and shillin' out sneakers to kids who wanna play bounty hunter doesn't really sound like my idea of a good time. 'Sides, I got my job to think about."

Feeling a little more at ease now that Nack was actually talking business, Jeremy nodded his head in contrition and said, "Well, as I said before, Mr. Weasel, we can accommodate your schedule, no matter how-"

"Nah, nah," Nack interrupted, waving his hand in dismissal. "Ain't what I'm talkin' about. See, I do a lotta sneakin' inta places, right? And sometimes I gotta do that by pretendin' I'm somebody else. That kinda thing'd be pretty hard when my face becomes a household novelty. 'Hey, ain't you that guy from the underarm deodorant ad?' ain't what I'm wantin' to hear when I'm tryin' to gatecrash someplace, neh?"

"Oh, we've already thought of that," Been suddenly chimed in, just as Jeremy had planned for just such an eventuality. "We had a number of mockup spots to show you, including versions that would merely feature your voice without revealing your face." The sheep opened a foldtop digipad and turned its screen towards the bounty hunter. "If I may?"

Nack grunted his approval. Been used a touchpad on the table's surface to turn the room's lighting down a little and set the pad to access the appropriate file.

"Now this first spot, Mr. Weasel, is-"

"Nack."

Both Been and Jeremy looked up in mild surprise. "I-I'm sorry?" stuttered Been.

"_Nack_," the bounty hunter repeated.

"Oh!" Been exclaimed in sudden understanding. "Oh, well then, this first spot, Nack, is for the sports drink, Excellerade . . . "

* * *

A flash of lightning and a clap of thunder pulsed across the dark sky, illuminating the underside of black, bulbous clouds. The city underneath seemed to emanate its own red light, giving it an intensity usually reserved for predators on the run rather than buildings that never moved. 

A lone figure was moving through the shadows. It was leaping from rooftop to rooftop, the trails of a longcoat flying out behind it like a cape as it moved. Though the figure was recognizable as a thin but muscular male, precious few other details were discernable. It seemed as if nature itself was keeping time with this powerful being . . . the thunder and lightning flared every time he landed one of his impossible jumps.

Nack's voice weighed in from the darkness, its slightly nasal quality offset by a thrumming reverberation in the lower register.

"_When I'm on the hunt . . . _" - flash, boom - " _. . . there is no force on Mobius that can stop me._"

The weasel-shaped silhouette rushed its way across a rooftop and jumped over a massive alley to another roof, this one featuring a dais crackling with barely contained energy. Floating above the mythic platform, serene amidst the surging tide of power, was a bottle of fruit flavored Excellerade. The figure, its major details still hidden safely in shadow despite the bright color bursting all around it, snatched the bottle from the air in mid-leap, landed powerfully on the other side, and began to drain the contents with enormous gulps.

"_Not even thirst._"

The empty bottle sat on the roof, its label prominently displayed, as the figure leapt off into the background.

* * *

The holo-vid powered down as the lights came back to full, showing that Jeremy had taken the time to settle his face into its best "I _knew_ you'd love it" expression. It was purely conditional, he knew, but there was no point wasting time when he was certain no one could possibly resist the power of that ad. 

"Huh," Nack said after a few moments had slid by. "So," he continued after a few more, "what voice prog did yah use there?"

"Actually, it's non-digital," Jeremy said, not sure if he could take the question as a good sign or not. "We have a very talented mimic on retainer for mockups such as this. There was very little material for him to work with this time, but we managed to unearth a half-minute interview with you from the archives."

"The one where I called the cameraman an asshat wearin' dickhead?" Nack asked with a grin.

"Er, yes, that would be the one," said Jeremy.

Nack laughed as he flicked his burnt out cigarette over his shoulder. Jeremy started, not sure if he was more surprised at the act itself or the fact that the bounty hunter had managed to smoke the entire thing so quickly.

"So, you say a mimic did that, neh?" Nack asked as he pulled out a stick of gum from yet another inner pocket and started smacking on it noisily. "Pretty damn slick. Whaddaya really need _me_ for, then? Seems ta me like ya got a whole me-centric ad campaign in the bag as it is."

"Wha-uh . . . I'm sorry?"

"Well," Nack explained patiently to the dog, "You've already got a fellah that sounds like me. Looks like you've got another fellah that looks enough like me if ya keep 'im in the dark. Why bother me with all this nonsense when ya could just be goin' ahead with goin' ahead?"

"Well, we . . . can't just _do_ that, Nack. We-"

"Mr. Weasel."

"I'm . . . what?"

"_Mr. Weasel._"

Instead of allowing himself to say something else stupid, Jeremy clamped his mouth shut and tried to recollect his thoughts. The conversation, which he had only mostly been managing before, had far-too-suddenly slipped _completely_ out of his control, and he wasn't at all certain how it had happened.

He felt a small trickle of sweat work its way across the line of his eyebrow, causing him to put an even tighter clamp on his jaw. Evolution had seen to it that his people had eventually gotten sweat glands all over their body, but it still hadn't seen to removing the urge to pant heavily. If he could just keep his cool, he would be able to pull out of the whole ordeal with some shred of dignity if nothing else.

For the moment, with his mouth sealed shut, he had to rely on Been to help him with that goal. He gave his partner a sharp glance and then jerked his head in the bounty hunter's direction.

"Er, ah, what Mr. Doggart means, Mr. Weas-"

"No no," Nack interrupted, "_you_ call me Nack. _He_ calls me Mr. Weasel."

Been took a moment to shrug helplessly at Jeremy, then said, "What he means, Nack, is that we can't use your image or voice, even if they're fakes, without your permission. You would still have to sign some sort of contract or waiver for us to proceed."

Nack leaned his head back at spat his gum up in the air. It hit the ceiling with a resounding _thwack_ and stuck there in a small, gooey mass. He then hummed thoughtfully to himself for a moment. "Don't want a damn contract," he said at the gum spot on the ceiling, "but sure as hell don't wanna just give myself away." He absentmindedly thumped one of his boots on the table, causing several chunks of damp soil to dislodge themselves and bounce around. "Nope," he said, looking back down at the other two men, "no deal. I think we're just wastin' time here."

With an exaggerated sigh, Nack swung his feet off the table, leaned forward, and very carefully flicked a bit of mud into the water pitcher sitting in front of Been.

"'Course, don't really matter," he said, "since I wasn't gonna do a deal with ya anyway."

Jeremy's mouth immediately fell open as he let out an indignant cry of surprise. "Wasn't . . . _weren't!_" he spluttered.

He stood up, suddenly furious, and looked around at the mess that Nack had caused in his previously pristine room . . . the mud on the floor and table, the cigarette ashes and butt, the gum. He felt his entire plan come crashing to the ground, and it seemed intent on taking his whole world with it.

"If you weren't here to make a deal, then just what the hell was this all about!" he demanded angrily. "I took it under good faith that you had agreed to this meet in order to hear me out, listen to my ideas! But you come in here, and disrespect me, and my colleague-"

"Actually, Jer, he-"

"_Shut up,_ Been!" he growled at his partner, then turned back on Nack. "You muddy up my room, bring your filthy tobacco into this smoke-free environment, don't even watch the four other spots that I worked _very_ hard to put together, and then calmly say that you _never intended to make a deal?_ I put my career on the line for this one! I had everything planned out! Why did you feel the need to come in here, just to make a complete ass out of me? What the _fuck_ was the _point?_"

It wasn't until several seconds of silence had passed that Jeremy's brain slipped back into gear and let him realize that he had just thrown a screaming hissy fit at one of the most skilled and feared bounty hunters on the entire planet.

"Y'know, I hear that drugs are bad for you," Nack said, raising his eyebrows. "You might want to look into cutting your dose, neh? Now, if you're done with your little show and dance and freak out number, let's get down to some _real_ business . . . "

"_Holy shit!_" Been yelled as Nack leveled a laser pistol at a point just between him and Jeremy. The dog's jaw and pretenses dropped at the same time as he began to pant furiously.

"You, shut up," Nack said as he vaguely waved the gun in their direction, "and you, sit down." As the two men complied with his directions, he pulled out and lit another cigarette.

"S-so-so . . . are we, ah . . . is there a bounty on our heads or something?" Jeremy ventured, drool slopping over his chin as he spoke.

"Hmm? You two? Hah!" Nack snorted. "Naw, not exactly you. Somethin' you got, tho'."

"What could we possibly have that you would want?"

Nack shook his head. "Not what _I_ want, Jerry," he said. "What _Baxter_ wants."

Jeremy's hand reflexively shot up to the pearl and gold brooch on his tie. "Well," he said, "well, you just tell him he can't have it! You tell him, if he wants it, he should be man enough to come get it himself!"

"Well, that's the problem, Jerry," said Nack. "Accordin' to the file, he tried to get it from ya several times before. Seems you didn't wanna give it to 'im, so he had to go to the guild for help. Okay, Ben, speak yer mind."

The sheep, who had been staring back and forth between his co-worker and the bounty hunter with a confused look on his face, jumped in his seat. He blinked and said, "I was just . . . wondering what the heck was going on here."

"Real simple, really. You ever meet Jerry's ex-boyfriend, Ben?" asked Nack. When Been nodded, he said, "Well, Bax got ol' Jerry here a right nice piece of jewelry for his birthday one year. But when the two of them hit splitsville, Bax decided he wanted his little pretty back. Jerry wouldn't just hand it over, and Bax wasn't the type to try and steal it back himself, so he lodged a formal bounty on the piece with the Bounty Hunter Guild. That little nugget is now worth 2,000 credits, any form."

"But I haven't seen Baxter in over two years!" Jeremy whined. "Why are you just trying to get the brooch _now?_"

Nack chuckled for a moment before answering. "Might not wanna hear this," he said, "but . . . see, we get bounties like this at the guild and in the freelance circles all the time. We just call 'em 'spats' for short, and they're kind of a joke to us, really. No one takes 'em seriously unless there's a pretty good size ball of dough financin' 'em, and even then we wait a while to see if they're gonna get retracted 'cause the poor widdle wovebirds finally kissed and made up. Seem's your kid Bax is the stubborn sort, tho' . . . and more than a little discourteous in his language concernin' you, Jerry, if the memo attached to his bounty report is any indication."

Nack grinned, his oversized fang gleaming in the light. "Me and some of the other fellahs at the guild had a right laugh over it, if I 'member right," he said.

"So if it's such a joke, why bother coming after it now?" Been asked.

"Fellah Jerry here gave me a call," Nack said with a shrug. "Ain't every day a mark just calls you up on the comm and asks for a sitdown. I'm nothin' if not an opportunist. All I hadda do was walk in, take the piece, and walk out 2K richer . . . who in their right mind wouldn't take a job like that?"

Jeremy now had both hands clasped over the brooch. He laughed a crazy laugh, his eyes wild, and yelled hysterically, "Well you're not getting it! And y'know what? You're not getting out of here, either! We've got cameras all over the place, and they've got holo and flatvid of you pulling a gun on us and robbing me! We've got evidence! We'll have the peacekeepers dropping on you like a hammer on nails! What do you think of that? Huh? _Huh?_ What do you think of _that?_"

Mock fear filled Nack's face as he shook his hands in the air. "Oh, no!" he cried. "Not peacekeepers! Whatever shall I do? I've never avoided getting arrested by _them_ before! Pfft. For one, I've got at least five warrants out for my arrest as it is, and only those damn literal minded Peacebots even _try_ to enforce them anymore. I ain't worried about adding one more. For another, I ain't grotesquely stupid . . . this mornin' I went out and rented me the neat little doohickey sitting in my jacket pocket right now, erasing my image and voice from all your surveillance tapes milliseconds after it's recorded. Your security boys'll find that all they've got is you fellahs and your secretary talking to empty air. Pretty snazzy, neh?

"Now, if you'd be so kind . . . ?" Nack motioned for the brooch.

At first it didn't seem like Jeremy was going to comply. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for any escape route, but there was nowhere he could reach without Nack plugging him. He then turned to look at Nack's outstretched hand, only to recoil from it as if it were a giant poisonous spider.

"Don't be stupid, Jerry," Nack said warningly. "I only gotta keep the brooch intact. The condition of the previous owner wasn't specified in the contract."

Finally, the dog pulled the pin from his tie and pushed it across the desk to Nack. As the bounty hunter slipped the brooch into a jacket pocket, Jeremy let out a giant breath and sagged resignedly in his chair.

"Why?" he asked, sounding very small. "If that was all you wanted, then _why?_ Why put me through all that crap before?"

"Hmm? Oh, that?" Nack said as he holstered his pistol. "Eh, just a bit of fun, really. Gotta rattle the straights every once in a while - no offense - and I gotta rep to keep up regardin' you corp folks anyway, neh? Don't want people getting the wrong idea."

The weasel stood and brushed some of the dirt off his jacket. "Seriously, tho', you fellahs _are_ a little too high strung for your own good. I mean c'mon," he said as he turned and stepped into the elevator, "it's just business."

* * *

A few minutes after the lift doors had closed behind the weasel, Been turned to Jeremy. 

"I think I need to find a new partner," he said.

Jeremy nodded tiredly, let his head drop to the table with a loud thump, and said, "I don't blame you at all . . . "

**END**

Roland Lowery  
esn1g(at)yahoo(dot)com

September 21, 2005


End file.
